


Wrong Number

by Ellynne



Series: Rumple's New Mirror [2]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 15:18:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11420703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellynne/pseuds/Ellynne
Summary: Rumplestiltskin is trying to paint when he gets a call over his magic mirror.





	Wrong Number

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to "Rumple Gets a New Mirror." I meant to do the whole series as captioned pictures. But, I had to face the fact that I don't have the patience or the artistic eye for that.

 

 

Painting, Rumplestiltskin reminded himself, was just a hobby. And different painters had different things they liked to paint.  Some liked landscapes. Some preferred portraits.  He just happened to like—er, _prefer_ Belle. It was a choice based on technical aesthetics, nothing more.  Getting just the right color for her eyes, capturing that miraculous glow of wit and humor, It didn’t mean he was interested in the subject matter, it just meant Belle had nice eyes.  From a technical POV only.  Not . . . some _other_ way.  Which he wasn’t thinking about. Because he never thought of Belle that way.

This was all about challenging himself as an artist.

Right?

That’s what he was telling himself as he worked on her smile (that beautiful, special smile that made anyone lucky enough to be on the receiving end feel like he—er, or she—or it [Rumplestiltskin knew quite a few its]—some generic person who didn’t have to be a _he—_ was the only person in the universe who had ever been smiled at like that).  He was having a hard time getting that smile right.

He remembered a painter he’d met in one of the southern kingdoms, the one from Vinci. Now, there was someone who could paint a smile. Maybe he should ask him for some pointers.

“ _Who . . . dares. . . ._ ”

Rumplestiltskin frowned.  Was that a draft?  Drafts and leaks in magical castles picked up odd traits, dripping musically or sounding almost as if someone were speaking.  Honestly, couldn’t things stay fixed around here?  He’d just redone this part of the castle, what, half a century ago?

“ _Who . . . dares. . . ._ ”

No, it wasn’t a draft.  It seemed to be coming from the magic mirror he’d just acquired.  Rumplestiltskin frowned. The whole point of getting a magic mirror from another world was that no one from this world could use it to spy on him and no one from that world had any _reason_ to spy on him.

“ _Who dares use the name of the Dark Lord?_ ”

“You have the wrong mirror,” Rumplestiltskin said.  “Now, run away and go bother someone else.”

There was a pause.  “Are you Rumplestiltskin, the self-styled Dark Lord?”

The sorcerer sighed.  “It’s the Dark One, not the Dark Lord, the Dark _One._ ” It had been understandable that no one could spell his name right back in his days in a poor, barely literate village.  “Rumplestiltskin” was a handful for anyone. It was one of the reasons he only had “Dark One” on all his business cards.  Apparently, that was still too hard for some people.

“Dark One, Dark Lord,” the voice in the mirror scoffed.  “It’s still copyright infringement.”

“It’s what?”

“Copyright infringement.  I am Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord, Mightiest of Wizards, and I tolerate no would-be upstarts claiming an equal place with my greatness.”

“First of all,” Rumplestiltskin said. “I’ve been the Dark One for three hundred years, so don’t talk to me about copyright—”

“I think you’ll find published accounts of my adventures precede yours.”

“Publishing?  I’ve been an active part of the oral tradition for centuries!”

“Doesn’t count.  Besides, I’m far more lordly.  How anyone could call you a Dark Lord with a straight face is beyond me.  I’m also _much_ better looking.”

“Excuse me?” That was the problem with magic mirrors. The person on the other end could get visuals while you were stuck on audio. He’d thought it might be useful to be able to check his appearance in the morning before he left his room and ran into anyone . .  er, anyone he might run into in the Dark Castle. Visitors. And so on. But, if it meant getting calls from idiots. . . .

“And I have fashion sense,” the ‘Dark Lord’ went on.  “Tight leather?  Please.  Black robes are both chic and timeless.”

“Only if you like being mistaken for a burnt bag of potatoes.”

“And potatoes aren’t chic?  But, never mind that.  I’m warning you.  Stop using the name ‘Dark One’ or I’ll come over to your world and curse you myself.”

Rumplestiltskin began to roll up his sleeves.  “Oh, you will, will you?” He moved menacingly towards the mirror.  “Ever considered a career as a garden slug?”

“The Dark Lord laughs at your foolish—Whoa!  Who’s that?”

Rumplestiltskin looked around, wondering if someone had stepped into the room.  But, no one was there. “Who’s who?”

“That painting!  Hubba hubba! Who is she?”

Rumplestiltskin turned around slowly, wondering if someone had switched paintings on him.  But, it was the same portrait he’d been working on.

“You mean Belle?”

“What a hottie! OK, lizard man, I’ll make you a deal.  Give me the original and you can use the Dark Lord moniker.”

“Give you. . . ?  Excuse me, could you stick your tongue through that mirror?  There’s something I need to do with it.”

“I’ll even throw in a bottle of Nair.  You can get rid of those ugly curls on your head.”

“Ugly. . . ?”

“And the name of my plastic surgeon.  You wouldn’t believe what that guy’s done with my nose.”

“Belle is _not_ for sale!”

“Fine, fine.  How about a time share?” Rumplestiltskin sputtered in fury.  For once, he was at a loss for words.  Lord Voldemort went on.  “C’mon, it’s not like you need her 24/7.  We could—Oh, wow, look at the time!  Hey, Dark Kid, I’ll get back to you.  Right now, I’ve got an appointment to blow up a baby and stop a prophecy.  If you need to get ahold of me before that, just leave a message with Nagini.  Gotta fly.  Ciao.”

Rumplestiltskin finally found his tongue.  “Oh, yeah? Well, I hope the baby blows you up!” He threw a curse at the mirror.  “See if he doesn’t!  Hey, do you hear me?”

“The mirror you are trying to reach is no longer in service,” a bored voice said. “If you feel you have reached this message in error, please, hang up your mirror and try again.  The mirror you are trying to reach is no longer in service. If you feel—”

Rumple snapped his fingers, shutting up the mirror.  He opened the door.  “Belle!” he shouted into the hallway.  “Belle!  Where are you?  I’ve got—”

Belle poked her head around the corner.  “Here I am.  I was just dusting the windows, and—Oh!  Rumple, do you paint?”

Rumple looked at his painter’s beret, painter’s smock, and the palette still in his other hand.  He magically closed the door to his studio, hoping Belle hadn’t seen anything. “Er, it’s a magic thing.  With paint.  But, for magic.  Not for painting anyone, er, anything.  Not that it matters.  You and I are going to another world.” After all, curses didn’t usually take when they were thrown across distances, much less realms.  If the baby didn’t take this “Lord Voldemort” out, Rumplestiltskin would.  “Pack your bags, dearie.  I’ve got a snail to crush.”


End file.
